


Smoke Break

by ros3bud009



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Cigarettes, Established Relationship, Headcanons about robot cigs and smoking abound, Kissing, M/M, Old Gays being Old and Gay, Set after Sick Mind episodes, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 04:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12927465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ros3bud009/pseuds/ros3bud009
Summary: There was nostalgia found in watching Ratchet smoke, warm and melancholy.





	Smoke Break

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote to kick my writer's block ass by forcing words out. I've wanted to write something with Ratchet smoking for a while now, and I always miss writing the Old Gay Husbands, so the time has finally come for both.
> 
> EDIT: there's fanart and I'm crying because it's so gorgeous???????? please go look at it and like/reblog/follow I'm sobbing????
> 
> https://zephyrus-moonlight.tumblr.com/post/173150965060/from-smoke-break-by-roseymoseyberry-this-just

It had taken Optimus a while to track the suddenly elusive medic down. While it wasn’t unheard of for Ratchet to leave the main areas of their base for anything other than recharge, it was certainly rare. Ratchet was almost always in his makeshift med-bay or at the main console, working and badgering the team to do the same. Even when he was absent, it was usually only for a few minutes before he shuffled back in from one of the storage rooms, arms full of supplies.

It had been a long time since Ratchet had truly pulled a disappearing act.

But not so long that Optimus couldn’t make some educated guesses.

It was his second try that brought him up the long hallways that made their way to the top of the plateau the base was built into. A secondary entrance for air shipments that was used by its past human residents but was generally unneeded for their purposes. It was a long ways from where his ground-based team preferred to linger.

Which meant it was quiet, isolated, and had a view.

All traits that appealed to Ratchet when he disappeared.

And, indeed, that was where Optimus found him. The Prime had turned the last corner when he spotted the medic’s silhouette against the fading light of Earth’s setting sun. The hallways were dark since Optimus hadn’t bothered to turn on the power for this section of the base – they could get around well enough without it – which just worked to deepen the shadow that Ratchet’s frame cast across the slanted floor.

Shoulder leaning against the frame of the entrance, hips ever so slightly tilted to the side, facing out toward the view.

Optimus slowed his pace, hesitant to ruin the moment he had come upon yet drawn in all the same.

It was a sight Optimus had not seen since they split off into this small team. Not since the days when Ratchet had his own specialized medical team, mecha he was able to trust could perform tasks that were now solely his own by both assignment and ability.

One servo moved into view, slightly away from Ratchet’s frame, palm held up with something between his fingers. After a few seconds a small cloud billowed from him, haloing Ratchet’s helm.

Optimus’s spark pulsed.

There was nostalgia found in watching Ratchet smoke, warm and melancholy.

By then, as slow as Optimus lumbered, he was close enough that Ratchet had to know he was there. But Ratchet didn’t tense up, didn’t shy away, didn’t say a word. But there was welcome in his field, so Optimus kept his pace until he stood next to his medic.

Lines born from age at the corners of Ratchet’s optics and around his mouth that went largely unnoticed in the soft human lighting of their base were highlighted in the unforgiving light of the setting sun. His whites were colored orange and his oranges nearly red under the rays. His optics sparkled as they stared out at the seemingly endless desert.

Optimus could only imagine the deep valleys that Ratchet would be able to see etched into his own face.

They were getting old.

Ratchet was as unbearably handsome as the first time Optimus had caught him taking a smoke break all those millennia ago.

“I thought you had long run out of cigarettes.”

“I did,” Ratchet said, lips quirking and deepening his wrinkles. “Had the last of my reserve after Tyger Pax. But I’ve been saving up energon dross.”

Optimus leaned back against the frame opposite Ratchet, simply watching as Ratchet brought the cig to his lips. Every vent on his frame was held shut like it was second nature to him, more habit than conscious action. That left only his intake to breathe the smoke in.

“I thought there wasn’t enough left over to bother with anymore.”

The softest whir of fans was all that gave away how the smoke cycled through his ventilation system a few times before Ratchet slowly let it escape back out, over his glossa and past his lips to slowly dissipate.

“Not with how we process energon now. Higher efficiency means greater output and less waste, which is great for the war effort, but that means there’s less byproduct to use for more recreational purposes.”

“And yet you have managed.”

Ratchet chuckled and the ashy end of the cigarette finally gave way, crumbling to reveal the bright red glow of slow-burning energon dross.

“I’ve been saving up for a  _long_ time.”

Considering the otherwise useless remains of energon processing was rarely more than enough to dust a mech’s palm, Optimus suspected the timeline stretched across decades to create the cigarette now burning away in Ratchet’s servo.

Optimus didn’t ask why Ratchet chose today to dip into that precious reserve.

Instead Optimus finally let his optics drift out towards the view. Some of it was hampered by the long stretch of plateau between them and the edge, but neither moved to stand under the open sky. Even here, in the middle of sand and stone for miles around, in the calm of their shared break from their daily lives, instincts learned from war lingered at the periphery of their processors.

But the sky was cloudless, streaked with colors unlike any that graced Cybertron’s skies, and at the edges furthest from the disappearing sun, faraway stars started to appear against the dark void of space.

“Did you want some?”

Optimus considered the cigarette that wiggled ever so slightly between Ratchet’s digits. The medic wore the devious look of a younger mech, aged only by the slight gruffness of his voice as he asked.

It was a look that meant it wasn’t a particularly pleasant cigarette. No doubt being stripped to just the barest chemicals had also stripped it of anything that could smooth out the experience.

“I’ve never enjoyed it as much as you do.”

“But you don’t hate it.”

“No,” Optimus admitted. He could still remember the first time Ratchet offered, when Optimus was Orion and when Ratchet laughed openly and brightly when Orion coughed and sputtered. He also remembered the taste of that last cigarette after Tyger Pax, burning down his intake to counteract the tired ache of his spark. “But I hate to take what you’ve saved up when I won’t savor it.”

Ratchet’s shoulder shifted in a slight shrug. His servo was still held out towards Optimus.

“It’s only as good as the company you share it with.”

Optimus’s digits brushed Ratchet’s as he accepted the offer.

It took him a moment to bring up long unused lines of code, closing his vents but leaving his intake open, and Optimus’s guess had been correct – the smoke was harsh. It stung down his intake, only softening as the smoke cooled.

But there was comfort in the actions. In the way his focus moved inward to keep the smoke inside his frame and moving. In the taste that reminded him of times when energon was still plentiful and thus cigarettes easily obtainable. In the way Ratchet watched, optics cycling with something that Optimus could never quite pinpoint.

In the way that it proved he was alive and functioning.

Optimus pushed away from wall, needing only to take one step towards Ratchet to close the distance. Ratchet’s cheek was still warm from the sunlight. The scratches on the pad of Optimus’s thumb lightly caught on the grooves beneath Ratchet’s optic, tugging at protomesh thinned with age. Ratchet tipped his face up as Optimus leaned down.

Optimus let Ratchet’s intake of breath steal the smoke from between his lips as they touched.

Ratchet’s servos found the back of Optimus’s helm, at once desperate as they pulled him closer, and his lips tasted of their shared smoke.

Ratchet’s digits held a slight tremor as his field unfurled around Optimus, revealing the fear that clung to him like the smell of his cigarette.

“I’m alright, Ratchet. The plague is gone.”

“I know,” Ratchet said, his servos moving to frame Optimus’s face. His thumbs traced where Optimus knew his age was showing. “I know, I just–”

“I know.”

One kiss became a second, but with a shuddering ventilation Ratchet pulled back. His optics fluttered online, and Optimus wished for a third kiss.

It was quiet for a moment as Ratchet seemed to search his face.

“Then give me back my damn cigarette.”

Optimus couldn’t help a quiet laugh and Ratchet couldn’t keep up the act in the face of it. Ratchet’s wrinkles deepened when he laughed and Optimus kissed them.

The last rays of sunlight were fading, but neither bothered to watch as they finished Ratchet’s cigarette.


End file.
